


Rusty's Story

by bluwaterdragoon



Category: Werewolf: The Apocalypse, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Gen, Humans as Other, Hunters & Hunting, Lupus, No Romance, No Slash, No/Low dialogue, OC, Original Character(s), Shapeshifting, TTRPG, Werewolf, Werewolf Culture, Wilderness Survival, Wolf Instincts, Wolf Pack, character backstory, completed fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluwaterdragoon/pseuds/bluwaterdragoon
Summary: In which we get to know a lupus werewolf from Werewolf the Apocalypse.
Kudos: 3





	Rusty's Story

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first posted fic! I love writing character backstories for a variety of fandoms, so please look forward to more in the future!

Chapter 1  
It was the smell. The smell saturated the ash-filled air as soot danced in ominous patterns. It reeked of metal and heat and death. The russet-colored quadruped growled low and deep, feeling rising bile in his throat. His emotions surged, carrying with them fear, and -above all- rage. Rage that it could come once more, just when he'd finally found a home. That it saw fit to cast its shadow on his den. How dare it.  
He could still remember the night of the smell's first arrival. Back then he was just a tiny wolf pup. His mother and their pack had been on the hunt, chasing a lone doe skillfully isolated from her herd by the pack's valiant efforts. He remembered running behind his mother, yipping when he fell too far back. She gave little growls, to intimidate the prey as much as to encourage him to keep up with the chase. It was hard, and he was tired, but it was a good tired. The chase was fun and exhilarating. The other adult wolves had pride and hope in their eyes for all the pups who fought to keep their place at the center of the undulating pack.  
He saw the doe leap desperately from side to side, attempting to throw off the nipping wolves. The doe charged into the deep brush, dodging fallen trees and stiff bushes. The pack knew the doe was tired, but also knew they could not navigate the dense foliage in one lump. In a well-practiced maneuver, they split up into partners, or partners and cubs. He chased his mother, as she veered left-center, keeping the doe within sight. He veered, too, and stumbled in the maneuver, skidding on the wet leaves. Mouth open and tongue lolling he rolled back up and leaped forward, surging towards his mother again.  
That was when the *snap* came. Not the snap of dry twigs, but the deep and menacing snap of teeth, sharp as razors. His momentum pulled him forward until he was yanked back, his right-side hind-leg bitten in the cold metal jaws of a hunting trap. He howled in pain and confusion. He saw his mother twist mid-leap to face him. In two easy strides she was there. He whimpered, in the surest knowledge that like everything else up until this point, this too, would briefly come to an end, now that mother had arrived. She whimpered back at him, nosing the trap, searching for weaknesses. He twisted his head back as best as he could, looking at what she saw. That's when he smelled it for the first time. Adrenaline fought out the pain, but the acrid metallic smell pierced his nose just as the glinting steel fangs pierced his flesh. It was the worst smell he had ever encountered.  
Slowly, other pack members arrived, still panting from the exertion of the chase. As they saw him they stiffened, the expressions of the joy of the hunt leaving them. Aunty and uncle and great-aunty came over and tried to help mother examine the trap, expressing their deepest concern. The russet-colored pup twisted his head again, and yelped as the fangs cut deeper into his leg. His mother coordinated their efforts and they pawed at the trap, attempting to find purchase on the cold steel frame.  
Another sound split the air, the *crack* of the unnatural. One of the wolves startled, and all the wolves looked up. It was close, too close for comfort. The wolves re-doubled their efforts on the trap. Aunty grabbed his head, pulling him this-and-that way. He cried out ferociously as flesh ripped and muscle tore. Aunty subsided with a whimper. Mother licked his face in comfort. The *crack* resounded again, closer. Mother nuzzled him gently as the other wolves scattered away from the sound. A gesture he knew to mean, “Don't worry, I'll be back.” She left, slowly, looking back, her body a mixture of fear, sadness, and a brave face she put on for him.  
Great-aunt pulled at her, “Come on! Let's go!”  
The russet-colored pup begged her with his eyes, “Come back soon.”  
He lay down, panting from the pain. His body was shaking from the effort of staving off infection. The smell never left. He did not hear the *crack* again. Slowly, with no input from his mind, his eyes closed.  
His eyes opened again to the now-dull throb his leg made. He estimated it must've been a fourth of a full sun-cycle. He thought about looking back, to see the state he was in, but his body fought his control. A sharp sound in the brush caused his eyes to shoot wide open, and he pulled his head sideways to see the source of the sound. The biped was green and brown and pulled the branches back with one gangly paw. It carried a metal stick. He pulled back, away from the biped, and felt his leg pull against the teeth that held him. He yowled involuntarily. The biped made sounds with its mouth, soft and steady. He yanked again, but the trap did not give way. The biped moved its gangly paw towards him and he smelled the metal of the stick. It smelled cold and silent, but unmoving and uncaring. Not like the trap, which smelled like death.  
He snapped at the biped's paw. The biped flinched away. then pulled a sack off its back. He watched as it dug in the sack, until it came out with two small hides. It pulled the hide on over its paws. Then it reached for him again. He snapped at the biped once more, but the biped was deliberately staying out of reach. He saw its paw move lightning-fast, fast as a startled hare. He felt it grip the back of his neck hard, pushing his head into the ground. He twisted and pawed at it, trying to claw it, but the biped's hold was secure and the pup's leg in the trap bound him to one position. The biped continued to make its mouth noises. The biped lifted one of its legs and placed the broad heavy paw part on the russet-colored pup's neck. He knew he was done for. With the heavy paw on his neck he was pinned in place, unable to even reach to scratch the thing. He stopped struggling and tried to accept his fate. This was the way of life. You live, and, like the felled deer, you die.  
He felt something on his wounded leg. The teeth scraped skin, but he felt the weight lift off of him. Hope burst in his chest, and he swung all four legs wildly, attempting to gain purchase on the forest floor with his paw pads and claws. His neck, still pinned, twisted with the effort of his legs. The biped made a shorter, sharper mouth noise, and he felt its heavy leg come down on his back. He scratched his hind paws at the leg holding him down and felt his claws gain purchase. The skin of the beast caught in his feet and ripped away from the biped. It hissed, but didn't budge. He heard it digging around in its sack. And he cursed its ability to move its top limbs so freely. He felt the gangly paws grab his hindlegs and a rough rope pin them together. He whined. The gangly paws came for his front legs and tied them together, as well. He went limp; he could not escape with both legs tied and his head forced into the dirt.  
He heard a rip, and thought at first it was his leg being torn off, but there was no accompanying pain. The metal stick lay discarded behind the biped. He heard several other strange sounds that he could not place. He flinched as he felt a cold thing come into contact with his leg. There was a sound like the thing's flesh ripping away and he yelped as a second rope was coiled around his injury then tightened. The thing ran its paw down his side. He couldn't make heads nor tails of it. It was like an alien version of his mothers' nuzzle; strange and unfamiliar yet seemed to convey a sense of comfort. It was unpleasant. He whined at the biped. The soil cut into the side of his head and eye. It ran its paw down his side again, and, leaning around its own leg, ran its paw down his head to his muzzle. He whined. Why was the thing acting like this? There was another sound like its skin tearing and he felt the first set of ropes go slack.  
All of a sudden the biped stood up, freeing him. He leaped up, flailing paws and claws gripping successfully into the earth. He ran forward, and yipped as his injured leg made contact with the ground. He made a couple more strides, keeping his leg off the ground, until he realized the thing had not given chase. It was confusing, and he turned around to gage its response. It stood there, unmoving, one paw still covered in hide. He looked down at his hind leg. In the fading light he saw a white strip of its skin covering his wound. He looked back at the biped. It made smooth but loud mouth noises at him, and pawed the air. He gave it a confused look, then loped off into the night on three paws.

Chapter 2  
He looked for his mother for three sun-cycles, staying alert for the smell of more traps. The first sun-cycle, he had known where to sniff and, although faint, he could track her by smell. But somewhere in the second sun-cycle he had lost the scent, and, although he spent the whole third sun-cycle searching for it, he did not find it again. His despair and hunger were getting the better of him. He knew one thing, though, his mother promised she would come back to him, where she last left him. So, with weary paws, he made his way back to the trap.  
Over the next sun-cycle he smelled for the metal death and found two more un-triggered traps in the same area. It would not do to have his mother come back only to fall prey to the same thing that had captured him. He studied how they worked, and sprung them using a dead branch. They shut with a terrifying snap, but caught nothing. His stomach roiled with hunger.  
The next sun-cycle he lay down by the trap, and tried to sleep off the aching in his belly. He woke at full sun-height and gnawed at his injured leg. His skin was itchy under the biped's skin rope. He stood up, and walked around. The motion caused him to wince from both the injury and the hunger gnawing through his belly. He knew that he'd be easy prey for a big cat. Hunting was tough, if not impossible, without a pack, and he was too weak to run down a rabbit or squirrel. He lay down again, if infection and predators did not take him, starvation would. He huffed in defeat.  
At sun-down his nose quivered, waking him. A smell. The smell of meat! It was carried on the breeze, from somewhere opposite sun-down. Life. He pulled his weary body up from the leaf litter and dragged his leg behind him as he slunk toward the scent.  
It wasn't very far away, but it took him longer than he would have ever expected. He was tired, and only his raw survival instinct kept him moving toward the promise of meat. He spied something in the distance, a bright light against the horizon. It was almost blinding, like a tiny sun. He stopped. The smell was strong on the breeze. The breeze also carried sounds, loud mouth sounds of bipeds. He hesitated. The mini-sun was potential danger, as were the bipeds. But, the meat could save him. Was it worth risking uncertain death? He blinked. It was certain death without food. He would have to convince them he wasn't worth eating, and wasn't threatening enough to kill. He slunk towards the tiny sun and bipeds, taking care to lower his head and tail in a submissive gesture. But, as he knew secretly, it would also hide his diminished frame.  
The mouth-sounds got impossibly louder. So loud. He walked very close to the mini-sun. It was a fire, like he'd seen from a distance after the lightning. It crackled on the logs in its stone ring. He drew back in fear. The mouth-sounds stopped, then a hushed mouth-sound came from one of the bipeds. Then a louder mouth-sound from another. He looked up at them and entreated them with his eyes, “Share your kill with me?”  
A thud next to his face distracted him and he looked down at the ground. A piece of flesh, pink and glistening in the light, had landed in the dirt at his paws. It didn't look like any flesh he'd ripped from a prey, but it smelled like meat. He glanced up at the bipeds. They were still, and silent. Like the one who had freed him from the trap. He ate the meat. It was good, although very different from what he was used to. It sucked moisture from his mouth before it had even gone down his throat. He looked back at the bipeds. Another thud, and a piece of meat was in front of his nose. He ate that one, too. He was aware in the back of his mind that they were enticing him closer, into their ring and next to their fire. But he knew he could back out if necessary. They hadn't moved to encircle him.  
There was a louder thud and he saw a much larger piece, black in places where the fire had touched it, laying on the ground next to the stone ring. He knew this was a trick, he was the prey and this was their hunt. But hunger still drove him and why had they not already gone for the kill? He slunk forward, head down but alert. He grabbed the meat, and pulled it back, away from the fire. He ate it while they watched him without moving. One made a quiet mouth-sound to its companion, and he flinched. It stopped making sounds. He finished the meat. One of the bipeds to his left held out a large chunk of meat in its paw. He waited for it to drop the meat. It waited for him to take it. The sun set fully below the horizon. He caved first, and carefully, ears on swivel to catch any sign of ambush, slowly nosed forward to take the meat. Once he grabbed it in his teeth he pulled back, sharply and strongly, dragging his prey out from the area of danger. The biped exhaled strongly. He backed out into the night, one of the bipeds suddenly making a loud mouth-sound which propelled him into fleeing. Now, with his prize, he settled down by the death trap and waited. He had done it! He had food, and his mother would be coming soon. Floating on the euphoric feeling of success, he slept.  
The next sun-rise he awoke. He listened, and the peaceful sounds of the forest echoed back at him. He stood up, and favoring his leg, examined the area for death traps again. He could not be too careful. His stomach growled at him and he growled back at its incessant urges. He lasted until late sun-cycle before the pain in his stomach grew too much to bear again. He sniffed the air. No easy smells of meat greeted him this time. Not a problem. He would just go an investigate the area of the bipeds. Perhaps, like a scavenger, he could find some scraps.  
The fire was out, and gray ash had settled gently in the center of the ring of stones. Some escaped pieces irritated his nose as he sniffed around for discarded scrap meat. There were no bones, he noticed. That was strange. He smelled the area where the pink meat had been. It smelled faintly of his former prize. He tried to track the smell around the fire pit but, although there were traces of the smell, no discarded meat presented itself. He flinched at a sound, a hollow metallic creaking sound. He looked up and several paces away saw an opening to one of the great boxes he had seen once on a hunt. A biped came out of the house, holding the opening-cover. It looked at him. He looked at it. It turned, and made loud mouth-sounds into the box behind it. Another biped came out and looked at him. He looked at it. It made mouth-sounds to the other one in the box-opening. He watched as one went inside, came back out, and dropped something on the ground. Then, with a look in his direction, they both went inside.  
He slunk toward the now covered box-opening. He got within a few steps when he saw and smelled it. Meat! He glanced warily at the box-opening cover. It did not move. He trotted up to the meat, still wary of the box-opening cover. He saw movement from inside the box and froze. The box-opening cover didn't move. A biped stood on the other side, apparently watching him. He assessed the box-opening cover. It would take time to open, and he could be long gone. He decided to risk it. He grabbed the meat with his teeth and dragged it off.  
Several sun-cycles passed much the same way; he learned that the bipeds would come at the same time every cycle and place meat outside the box-opening cover. He would drag it off and eat it. The cover never opened, although the bipeds would watch. Sometimes he heard them make mouth-sounds, but they were muffled. One cycle, he didn't drag the meat off to eat and instead just ate it by the box-opening cover. The next sun-cycle, there was more meat than normal outside the cover.  
A few sun-cycles later, he had arrived just after the meat should have been placed. But there was no meat. Instead, the cover was open. He approached warily. Clearly the game had changed, and the stakes were higher. He smelled the meat, and saw it just inside the lip of the box. He checked the bipeds, they were still and silent, watching from deeper within. He was hungry, though, and the meat was so close. He grabbed it and hurriedly trotted away to eat it in the woods. Another victory.  
He noticed that as the sun-cycles continued, the meat was further and further inside the box. But the door was open and he could always escape. By the seventh sun-cycle he had all but dismissed the strangeness of the box; the ritual had become routine.  
On the eighth sun-cycle the game changed. The box-opening cover, which had always been open, was suddenly shut with him inside, lightning-fast, by one of the bipeds. He yelped in fear, and tried to grab the meat and to escape, but it was too late. The box had trapped him. He skittered around its strange wood floors, slipping on the ground which had no purchase, meat flapping from his jaws. In a desperate attempt to stop them from grabbing him like the biped from weeks ago, he hid under one of the strange skin-and-wood structures in the box. He heard them from under the structure, the bipeds made a lot of sounds. He hid there for a very long time, meat forgotten at his side. Eventually, hunger got the best of him and he ate the meat, but did not leave the hiding space.  
The next sun-cycle they coerced him with meat again. Why had these things not killed him? Were they not going to? He came out to accept their offering at sun-down, after they had given up and just put the meat down on the ground immediately outside his hidey-hole. So it continued for several sun-cycles.  
He was trapped in the box, but he'd laid by the metal death traps for so long, surely his scent was strong there. He hoped if his mother came, she would wait for him.  
In the meantime, he learned that the bipeds used their mouth-sounds to communicate, and each mouth-sound had a different meaning. “Hotdog” for the pink meat, “door” for box-opening cover. “Rusty” for him. “Come out” as a command, asking him to come take the hotdog, or sometimes other meat. He hated the command, as if they could control him. But, he had to admit it was true. Eventually he had to come out when hunger overtook him. One sun-cycle he decided to experiment. What would happen if he did not hide? He knew it would be risky, the bipeds could decide to kill him, after all. But the hidey-hole was cramped, and he was bored.  
He took the meat, but only half-backed into the hidey-hole. The bipeds watched him, silent and still like they always were when they were impressed. They bared their teeth disconcertingly at him. He gnawed the meat bone to cover his unease. The bipeds didn't move as he finished his dinner, and, eventually, once he was done, they moved off like they usually did to sit upon the skin-and-wood objects opposite his hidey-hole. He saw them sneak glances at him once in a while, though.  
The next few sun-cycles he realized that he could eat in the relative openness of the box. The bipeds watched him, and he watched the door. He realized that the door could be opened by a lever half-way up its height. But the lever was fully above his own small height, even stretched out. He found it demoralizing.  
Over the coming sun-cycles he learned several things about the bipeds; they were trapping him deliberately, they went hunting once a week, what he had mistaken for skin appeared to be another creatures' hide of some sort, and they didn't have any intentions of harming him. It was fortunate, really. But, being trapped meant that if his mother did come back, he wouldn't be able to see her. He clung to the hope that she'd smell him.  
The bipeds had made a big fuss over the hide around his leg, and had at one point pinned him in their upper limbs and replaced the hide with another hide. He knew them better and didn't mind being held or touched as much now, although he still threatened them when they got too bold. Mostly, he watched, and waited, and looked for a way out. He knew eventually he'd grow big enough to reach the lever. But would that be too late, he wondered?  
The bipeds complimented him on his coat, and fed him parts of their kill. He had never fancied himself an omega, but the food was easy and fresh. In return he'd let them put their gangly paws on him. He learned that there were four bipeds which inhabited the box. Two near-adult and two full adults. The two near-adults were a male and female, as were the two full adults. They were careful around him, but as he began to be able to read their language more he understood that they enjoyed his presence. He attempted to practice some hunting maneuvers on the bits of meat they had given him, so he wouldn't be out of practice. This had evoked peals of loud noise from the bipeds that he'd learned meant they were very pleased. He yipped at them.  
He realized that he couldn't just wait to grow big enough to reach the door, and tried searching around the big box for other exits. The first time the bipeds caught him on top of their white counter they had scolded him with loud sounds and paw-waving. He realized they didn't want him searching for an exit, so he started limiting his searches to night, when they would be asleep. They always seemed to know, though, and scolded him in the morning, when they arose. Humph. They were smarter than he had given them credit for. He learned that he had to be very careful, and not knock anything over or disturb any of their carefully-placed objects.

Chapter 3  
It had been more than a full moon-cycle when the thing came for him and his bipeds. He first knew something was wrong because the bipeds rushed from the box, leaving the door open. Rusty mentally crowed at this, what an opportunity! He rushed out, fully intending to see if his mother waited for him at the death-trap area. A sudden scent of fear caused him to pause just outside the door. He looked around. The bipeds were making the loudest sounds he'd ever heard, howling back and forth at each other in panic. He looked up, towards the forest, and saw the plume of dark black smoke rising over the dense trees.  
He felt the panic himself. He'd seen forest fires from far away, but he knew that for however good they were for the forest, they spelled death for those creatures trapped within. He looked back at his bipeds. They were rushing around, gathering water and cutting grass. He didn't know what it all meant, but he understood that if the fire could burn a whole tree it would definitely burn their wood great box. The wind shifted, and he smelled it. The smell of smoke and the haze of ash. And, underneath, the smell of the metal death. With a start he realized that if his mother was still out there she would be in the path of the fire.  
He bolted towards the edge of the woods. As he got there, he smelled the acrid smoke and saw the triggered traps. He sniffed for his mother but the smell of smoke was overpowering. He pulled up leaves and brush, hoping to get a better sniff but the only smell was the death smell of the traps. He heard one of the bipeds cry out and he paused his search, turning and bolting back towards the box and to the sound. The animals of the woods were fleeing, storming past the bipeds. The younger male had fallen backwards, hit by the trampling of the animals. The older male yelled at him, throwing another bucket of water on the great box. Rusty leaped in front of the young male, herding the animals for a moment away from the biped until the biped regained its footing.  
Once the biped was again able to care for himself, Rusty sprang back to the forest. The hot ash stung his face as he re-entered the trees and the smell overpowered his nose. He howled out for his mother, hoping that despite the crackle of the coming fire she might hear him. He felt despair in his heart, he didn't even know if she was here or if she was caught somewhere else, trapped by the fire. He hoped fervently that she was in an entirely different forest, unaffected by the acrid, burning smoke and choking ash.  
His leg hit the side of one of the triggered death traps and he yowled as the red-hot metal scorched his skin and fur. He felt his anger rising. This thing! This was it! The death thing, it had brought this here, and now the whole forest -his mother, his new biped friends- was on fire with its baleful hate. He snarled in frustration.  
That was when he saw it. The front burn line reached Rusty, blowing sparks into his face, and scattering them on the heated earth. But through the sparks he caught a glimpse of the thing, a roiling, bubbling mass with eyes of crimson ringed with deep black smoke. The sick smell of burning flesh and wood and metal and decay made Rusty retch. Dense black smoke blew past his face, concealing the horrid thing and Rusty, freed from its burning gaze, back up and looked towards the box. The bipeds were howling, still, and pointing to the top of the box. Rusty could barely make out a small flicker of fire which had caught on the top of the box.  
A fresh wave of metal-heat-decay stench rolled over Rusty again. He looked back at the trees. The smoke was so thick and hot it ignited the vegetation using just itself. He looked for the thing. A tree candled, its bark cracking as its top shot sparks out over the clearing and toward the box. Rusty looked away from the tree just in time to see a glob of fire, unnaturally streaming from the ground, reach its tendrils hungrily toward the box. Rage blossomed in Rusty's chest. This. This thing. Was going to take everything he loved. His mother, the forest, the prey, the bipeds, the box. His life was going to be ripped from him again, just like the death metal trap had done those months ago. No.  
Not this time. He would fight it, tooth and claw. He would destroy it. He should've destroyed the traps. The thing spat and hissed and cracked and roared and taunted with its hateful, disgusting, eyes. Rusty howled back, his howl transforming into a roar that pushed back against the thing's crackling like a wall of sound. He grabbed it with massive clawed paws, his skin popping under heat as he bored into it. He sunk a fang the size of a kitchen knife into one of the fiery eyes, ignoring the smell of burning fur from his own body. He kicked at it with his hind legs, pulling gelatinous clods of fire out like ripping fat from a bone. It roared back and Rusty felt his fur burn away and his skin melt under the extreme heat. This was the way of life, you killed or you were killed. And he was going to kill this thing.  
He tightened his jaw and threw his head side to side, a classic hunting technique from his mother, designed to break bone and neck. Bits of fire shot off the thing. The bits landed on the grass and ignited it upon contact. Rusty threw it to the ground and rolled, pinning it under him. He felt a flash of pain as it bit through his chest. He raked his claws across its body. The more it split apart the more the already impenetrable black smoke rolled and swirled. It threw a chunk of its mass at Rusty and he howled again as he took it across the face. But Rusty knew it was weakening. The thing wasn't burning his belly now, it had been splattered on the ground like sap thrown from a great height.  
Rusty rolled, smothering one side of the thing. As soon as he let up, the center of it sprung back up in flame. Rusty rolled back the other way, extinguishing it again. An idea occurred to him. And he leaped off of the fiery mass. The flames roared back to life, but quickly hissed and spat as he dug into the deep, cool, earth and threw it forcefully on the rekindled flames. A fiery appendage reached for him and he stomped on it, his colossal feet stamping it out. He hacked as he took a breath full of ash. The black smoke made it almost impossible to breath.  
Rusty threw himself down, and rolled back-and-forth, fighting for victory and breath. He paused only when he couldn't see the flames through the suffocating smoke. He felt consciousness slipping with every unsatisfying breath. He dragged himself on his front paws, desperate to find cleaner air. As he pulled against the earth, he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed.

Chapter 4  
Rusty woke up in his soft fur bed, the young male biped stroking his head. Rusty whined in his puppy voice at them. They made the little cooing sounds back at him, then grabbed him fully in their front limbs in a choke hold. Rusty startled. He realized they were shaking and smelled like old fear and sadness. He chuffed at them and tried to breath through their squeezing. The adult male said “Good boy,” to Rusty, a phrase Rusty'd picked up to mean they were happy, and stroked Rusty's head. A breeze from somewhere in the room gently floated past Rusty's face and he realized that the left side of his face was fur-less. Burned off in the fight, he guessed. The young male grabbing his neck finally let go, and Rusty looked behind him to see the adult female untying his hind legs. His fur was patchy and smelled of fresh detergent. But, he noticed, he seemed to be intact. There were no open wounds as the bipeds removed the hide coverings, presumably placed there while he was unconscious. Rusty tested his footing. He was sore, but nothing ached. The wounded hind leg had even healed itself, albeit leaving a massive scar and a limp. Was the forest thanking him for fighting the fire-thing? He felt funny. He rolled his shoulders and stood up, his bushy red tail knocking against the female, who just pushed it away with a happy mouth-sound.  
In coming cycles the mystery of the healed leg continued to confuse the bipeds, who Rusty more than once caught shooting him glances. Rusty was sure that in some way it was the forest repaying his valor and he accepted it in stride. What interested Rusty was the way that the moon seemed to whisper down at him when he saw it through the windows of the box.  
As he grew larger, the box seemed to grow smaller. He loved the bipeds, with all their strange non-wolf ways, but he hated the confinement. He knew he owed them a lot. And they seemed grateful for him. Rusty wasn't sure that they had seen what had actually happened the night of the fire; the smoke was so black and opaque. But the box and its top still stood, mostly unharmed, and the bipeds had been grateful to see him. That was enough for Rusty.  
It would soon be time to leave; time to reach the lever and travel on into the night. Maybe to find his mother. Maybe to find a pack of his own. He had no doubts he would be back, though. They were his friends, strange though they may be.  
So, one night, under the bright face of the full moon, Rusty gathered meats from the cold-box where they were stored, placed them in the young female's bag, and, carrying his supplies, headed out into the night.


End file.
